


Some Shrinkage

by BitchyPeanut



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big and Little, Brat Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Needs a Hug (Supernatural), Crack and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nearly Human Castiel (Supernatural), Non-Consensual Spanking, POV Multiple, no slash but if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:08:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchyPeanut/pseuds/BitchyPeanut
Summary: Start of SPN Season 7--What if the Leviathan were returned to Purgatory, along with all those souls?  Would there be any Castiel left behind?  And just who keeps resurrecting the angel (and why)?Tune in for these exciting answers, wrapped in spanky goodness.
Kudos: 6





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LizardWhisperer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizardWhisperer/gifts).



The miraculous angel wasn’t too miraculous, these days. 

The little shit was nearly out of power, only able to get it up enough do things a douche magician could easily pull off. 

About a month ago, he could still tune into angel radio (heard there was never anything good on) and slam doors without needing to touch them, but since then, the only trick I saw Cas pull off was getting his eyes to glow that cool LED blue, but there was no mojo behind them. His greatest angel hits were all gone. He couldn’t fly or smite and he couldn’t heal—not even himself. Cas was human.

Being human was just what landed the former Angel of the Lord in hot water. 

“Dean, you are acting foolish--this is not necessary.”

I sighed the sigh of a guy who was sick to death of being angel-splained why it’s so boring and bothersome to be mortal.

“Y’see, Cas, that’s where you’re wrong, buddy. You’ve made this absolutely a hundred percent necessary. It’s your own fault. The fact you still refuse to see that it’s you that’s acting the damn fool is exactly what’s got us here. Now, I don’t like it any more than you, but this is all your doing, not mine.”

I watched my friend—my stubborn, infuriating, butt-headed, _adorable_ (you heard me) friend look around the old church, his wide eyes searching frantically for an out. Or an ally.

I shook my head, “Sam’s not here to save your ass this time. Besides, he’s had it up to here with you, too.” I gestured at the air over my own head. “Just cuz he opted not to watch, don’t mean he’s not backing me up. C’mere, Cas.”

Setting his stubbled jaw and squaring his shoulders, Cas narrowed his eyes, looking every bit the BAMF angel he had once been (Jedi symbol on his red hoodie aside). But I knew him—maybe better than he knew himself and just before he managed to shine the faintest glimmer of blue glow, I’d caught the flash of fear in his eyes. 

It sucked to see. “Cas, man—don’t make this any harder.”

I closed the space between us in two long strides, catching the angel off guard when I grabbed a handful of the back of his sweatshirt.

Cas squeaked (you heard me).

I had to hand it to the guy, he put up a wholly human struggle, but I had strength and size on my side and easily manhandled him.

“P-please, Dean—please don’t injure me.”

Determined as I was to follow through, I’d never gotten use to the loss of timber in Castiel’s sand paper throat and that utter smallness in his voice still made me hesitate. Watching him there, sprawled on his belly and uselessly fighting my grip, I softened my own tone.

“Come on, Cas--you know I won’t. Look—me and Sam tried talking this to death, we’ve babysat you, even locked you up. Nothing’s worked. If you’ve got a better idea how to get it into your pig head that you gotta stay safe, I’m all ears, buddy.”

“Dean, you think you can solve every situation with brute force. You’re just being a bully, like always.”

_Wrong answer._

Cas immediately sensed his mistake and made one last frantic attempt at escape, wriggling madly. But I held him down fast and raised my flattened hand around shoulder-height, taking careful aim at the seat of Cas’ size 4T jeans.

Oh.

My bad.

Did I forget to mention Castiel was _three feet tall_?


	2. Blinding Light

It had been months—months since the souls and Leviathan had returned to Purgatory, the deadly way. Months since Dean had knelt beside a foul-smelling dark spot on the cement floor and cursed Cas for being such a stupid child. Months since Cas had just reappeared at the hospital, without explanation or clear memory of where he’d been and smote his way through a dozen demons to reach Sam Winchester, still suffering from the Hell memories let loose in his brain. All those months ago, Dean watched his friend become himself once again, powerful and righteous, healing Sam’s insanity with a touch that engulfed the angel in blinding light. 

It was the last time Castiel was able to heal.

The following day, Dean noticed how Cas seemed to be floating in his clothes. “You get a new coat, buddy?”

And then he got smaller, day after day, until the coat and suit were discarded for teen-sized jeans and t-shirts and eventually, children’s clothes. Cas shrunk despite the Winchesters pouring over lore, spells, and curses, consulting witches and out of desperation, other angels. Cas just kept shrinking—and so did his grace. As his powers and his height both failed him, the angel grew irritable, moody, and ultimately depressed. He snapped at Sam and Dean often, who tried to be understanding with their friend, but eventually lost patience—Dean first.

“I don’t feel like translating texts. Do it yourself.” Cas tossed his pizza crust long-distance, into the trash.

“Listen, Cas, we know your situation is hard, but we’ve tried everything we know how to help and you’re being a real asshole!”

“Go away and leave me alone, Dean.” Cas hooded his head and slumped in his chair, though his feet still hung high off the floor.

“Just leave him be, Dean,” said Sam, looking up from his computer. He’d kept the latest case he’d found to himself and Dean, not wanting a rerun of the usual argument where Cas insisted he could help and Dean told him no.

“You too? How long are we gonna put up with this shit, Sam? First, he cracks your nut and tries to be God, now he thinks he’s some emo teenager and we're just his uncool parents.”

“He just needs more time, Dean.”

“More time? He’s had plenty of time to play all the voicemails on the burner phones, looking to join a hunt. He found the time to jam both our guns and did you forget he tried to steal my car? Last time _you_ took my baby, I punched your lights out, Sammy.”

Dean got the _look_.

“Aw, c’mon, I'm not gonna beat up Tom Thumb--but I told you and him both, if he keeps on acting like a kid, he’ll get treated like one.”

Sam had tried more than once to warn their friend that Dean wasn’t apt to make idle threats and that his continued acting out would most likely have consequences. In the years before he grew to tower over his brother, Sam experienced these consequences first hand—and they were embarrassing and painful. Cas just scoffed, so Sam gave up.

“Would a _kid_ wear these stylish super hero sweats?” Tired of being talked about like he wasn’t in the room, Cas’ voice dripped sarcasm. 

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face, scratching at his two-day growth and shaking his head at the small brooding man, with a sigh. “Mind if we talk in the other room?”

Cas glared at the brothers, from under his Captain America hood, as they headed toward the library to obviously talk some more about him. When their voices grew muffled, the shrunken angel crept across the room and opened Sam’s laptop, taking advantage of the hunter’s habit of simply closing it with the tabs open. He scanned the screen, quickly memorizing an address.

Sam and Dean packed light—it was a straight-up werewolf case (in their own state even) that should only take the night. Good thing, as neither felt too secure about leaving Cas alone at his size—or in his mood. 

He knocked on the bedroom door, “Hey, Cas, we’re taking off. Call us if you need anything. Cas?”

Sam could hear music from inside, so he reached for the doorknob, only to be shooed away by his brother, “Ah, let him pout, Sammy.” As he carried heavy duffels down the hall, Dean called over his shoulder, “Careful, Cas—your face’ll get stuck like that.”


	3. Dammit, Cas!

Castiel sat hunkered down in the back of the pickup. The tarp he had crawled underneath didn’t quite block the wind of the highway, so he sunk into his favorite red hoodie, searching for the security of the pocket knife, in his jeans. It was all he had, as Dean had given it to him after he’d failed miserably at handling their guns with his too-small hands. Ignoring his complaints, Dean told him, “Don’t lose it.”

Once the brother's were occupied, Cas had wasted no time getting dressed, plugging in the iPod Dean had given him and sneaking out of the bunker and into town, before he was seen. He didn’t care who’s truck he was in, only that at the gas station, he overheard the driver say he’d be in Geneva sometime around midnight. He’d have a decent head start on the Impala, which was good because this pickup was a clunker, but he had little choice. It wasn’t like taking a bus wouldn’t attract attention. A lot could happen to an angel in four hours, let alone a human—and a tiny one, at that.

But tiny human or not, he’d once been the Angel of Thursday—a powerful Seraphim and he’d hunted monsters on Earth alongside the Winchesters, for years. He knew his way around a hunt and he wasn’t afraid—but the Winchesters were. They treated him like he’d break, if he tripped. He’d become useless to the brothers, since he’d lost his powers. Human. Mortal.

But Cas had survived thousands of years, through Lucifer’s fall, heavenly wars, and the near-Apocalypse—he’d even survived the Leviathan.

But, how had he?

Searching for a solution to Cas’—er—"little" problem, they had all sought answers as to how he had come back. On their way back to Purgatory, the Leviathan had torn Cas to shreds, from his true form out, reducing him to what Dean called a “floor stain.” How had he returned? God? Then why return him whole, only to drain him of his power? Dean spoke the truth; they had researched every avenue available and come up empty—and so had Castiel. Empty of his grace, his size, his _self_.

He must have dozed off, as the sound of the tires on gravel woke him with a start. Peeking out, Cas spied a sign that said Geneva Lawn and Leaf and as soon as the truck stopped, he climbed over the tailgate, taking off across the lot and ducking into shadows toward the church steeple, towering over the square. The old burnt-out church was where the last body had been found.

Cas crawled up the warped shingles and slid under a loose board, covering a shattered stained-glass window, finding the drop to the floor a bit daunting. He landed with a grunt and waited for his human eyes to adjust to the dusty gloom. The full moon shown through the caved roof, casting just enough light for the little man to make his way to a hiding spot. 

He waited.

And waited.

There were occasional passing headlights and voices in the distance, but not much else. Cas was cold. He didn’t have a coat, as he seldom left the bunker. When he did, he had to stay ducked down in the car or be carried like a child by one of the Winchesters with his face well-hidden (picture trying to explain why your toddler has a five o’clock shadow and crow’s feet). He felt a shiver go down his spine, but realized too late it wasn’t just the chilly night. Someone—some _thing_ was behind him. It growled and knocked him to the floor, looming over him, as bloodied drool ran from its lips. Cas grappled for his knife, realizing too late he needed both his small hands to open it. The werewolf raised a claw and—

 _BOOM_! _BOOM!_

Cas was snatched away just in time, as the lumbering thing's body fell heavily in a heap on the floor, right where he had been.

Instead of menacing claws, Cas was gripped tight in familiar human hands—then shook, roughly.

“Dammit, Cas! What were you thinking?”

When Dean holstered his gun, the shrunken angel wiggled out of the hunter’s grasp, staggering back. He opened his mouth, but Dean made a dismissive gesture.

“Nuh-uh. I don’t even wanna hear it. You’ve got no business being here, Cas. That thing almost killed you.” The hunter leveled his friend with a dark look and wagged a finger in his direction. 

“You’re in for one long, sore ride home, buddy.”


	4. Cas

I had lived for millennia, commanded a garrison in Heaven, and fought my way in and out of Hell, but I’ve never felt more peril than I did pinned down over an angry Winchester’s lap. Dean had a natural aura of ferocity about him in the face of a fight, though I knew a side of the hunter few did—a side that protected and cherished, with a fierce loyalty toward those he cared about. When I refused to bend to his rules and was delivered an ultimatum of physical consequences, Sam had clearly described his brother’s intent as a child’s punishment. Embarrassing as it sounded, I understood a spanking to be a means of caring correction and guidance, though Dean’s threat to “beat my little ass” teemed with all the ferocity of a Winchester readying to wage war—apparently against my rear.

Still, I didn’t actually believe Dean would seriously harm me—not ever—but certainly not when I had no means to defend myself.

Then why this icy feeling creeping through my vessel, causing these rippling bumps on my skin? I was horrified to realize I was shaking. 

Why was I afraid?

Sure, he was big and strong and I was weak and very small, but this was Dean. _My_ Dean.

Just a few weeks ago, he had sat close to me and listened while I ranted and lamented over my situation—all I had been and all I had lost (Later, I overheard him tell Sam I'd thrown a _tantrum_ ). But, pouring me another paper cupful of beer, Dean had patted my shoulder and summed up my feelings efficiently enough. “That sucks.”

It did suck to be this small and it was humiliating to be treated like a child by my friends. My broiling frustration often led me to act against my better judgment.

Even when Dean gave me one more chance, asking me if I could offer an alternative to my punishment, I insulted him and called him a bully.

_Wrong answer_.

WHACK!

“Ow!”

It came out against my will—a cry of shock before the real pain actually registered—then a whimper, when it did. Dammit, that hurt. But not as much as the next one. 

_WHACK!_

“Owww! Stop!”

It was then that it dawned on me why I had felt fear. Despite my size, I was an adult human and Dean wasn’t trying to humiliate me with his strength—this was no simulation, it was a consequence. Dean wasn’t going through any mere motions, he was going to _punish_ me with all of his Winchester ferocity.

WHACK!

“Ahhhhh!”

WHACK!

“Oooooooo!”

I loathed the annoying high pitches produced by my narrowed larynx. Still, as much shrill noise as they produced, I knew the blows Dean delivered were measured. He could easily break my thin bones, but Dean only aimed to administer exactly what Sam had described--an old-fashioned spanking. He was intent to cause my bottom—but only my bottom—what was amounting to an _intense_ level of pain.

_WHACK!_

_WHACK!_

_WHACK!_

_WHACK!_

_WHACK!_

“Ow! Ow! Yahh! Ow! Owww!”

I had felt worse, of course.

I had been sliced with an angel blade, run through by all manner of weapon, and flung through space by banishing spells. I’d been burnt and beaten and blown up, had my skull probed with spikes, and my very being rent apart by Leviathan. I had even endured Heaven’s correction—the horrific practice of grace torture, but it wasn’t, _any of it_ , as vexing as this relentless smacking, concentrated on such a vulnerable area of my vessel. It was as if Father had granted humans a sensitive back end with the sole purpose to be set alight with slap after slap after slap after…oh God, it _hurt_ _so bad_.

“It’s supposed to hurt, Cas.” Dean’s gruff voice startled me.

_Had I said that aloud?_

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

“Yooowwwwch!”

I _had_ felt worse, of course, but this ridiculous human body with its ridiculous human feelings was getting the better of me.

Along with the inferno that was my entire backside, I began to feel a paralyzing burning in my vessel’s chest and a hot pricking at my eyes. The feeling got more intense, making it hard to breathe normally, as I gasped and railed and my nose tingled.

I honestly thought I would suffocate from the compression inside my chest, deeper even than the solid press of Dean’s knees and heavier than the hunter’s firm palm on my back. This was the pounding weight of my own failures, all of Dean’s crushing disappointment in me slamming me over and over, keeping perfect rhythm with the sting of his hand across my hind end. I deserved this.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

“I’m s-sorry I-I-I’m u-useless now.” It was honestly what I felt.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, Dean began to talk to me.

Salt burned my eyes and my vision blurred, as I fell and fell and fell with the tears—still pinned down securely, kicking and wailing across Dean Winchester’s knees.


	5. Dean

I had a number in my head—the number of smacks I’d planned to give Cas. From personal experience, I knew about what number would start to make my little friend wish he’d never taken a human vessel and I planned on giving him just a few more than that. 

I had to be careful. Cas was no bigger than a five-year-old, without the benefit of a five-year-old’s baby fat to pad his small rear. He was as lean as he’d ever been and my hand easily covered his whole backside, with every spank. As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to keep that accurate a count, instead I went by the heat I could feel through the seat of his jeans—and the racket coming from his other end. And then of course there was Cas whining that his spanking “hurt so bad.”

_Well,_ _duh_.

I had seen Cas hurt plenty of times—even watched him die—but judging by his hollering, you’d think I’d doused his little butt in holy fire. I tried not to judge, however—I’d been where he was and besides, he was new to being human. This was Castiel the human angel’s first spanking experience—and I made sure it was memorable.

I’d just gone past that magic number I was aiming at, when Cas’ yelling turned to screeching—then I heard his strained voice croak a stammered apology.

I checked my strength, easing up a bit—though I’d been spanking the little guy long enough to feel a sting in my own palm, so I don’t think he’d noticed.

“You’re not useless, Cas—that would be a stupid reason to bother punishing someone.”

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

“The reason I’m doing this is the opposite, really. You’re important to us, Cas—power or not. But you’re too small right now to be jumping headfirst into danger. You’ll get yourself killed—is that what you want?”

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Though I had lightened my swats, I did this thing I used to do when Sam was a kid and cupped my hand to make them louder. It wasn’t long before the unmistakable sound of tears also filled the empty church, along with the echo of my hand bouncing off my friend’s backside.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

“I’m a-a-a-a—” Poor little guy had to work hard to speak.

“F-f-fa-fa-failure.”

_Wrong answer._

I stopped mid-swing to tug down the back of Cas’ jeans. 

Examining the bright pink skin around the leg holes of his orange briefs, I decided it was safe to use some muscle.

_WHACK! WHACK!_

_WHACK! WHACK!_

_WHACK! WHACK!_

“Maybe you’ve given up on yourself, Cas, but we haven’t. We’ll find a way to fix this, buddy.”

_WHACK! WHACK!_

_WHACK! WHACK!_

Cas howled and bucked, balling up his tiny fists and kicking frantically, before giving up and lying limp, sobbing against my leg. He sounded miserable, begging, “P-ple-ease, D-Dee-ee-an…”

 _Shit. Did I break him_?

I stopped spanking and lifted him under the arms to face me. There was a _lot_ of fluid coming outta his scrunched, red face—not pretty.

“You’re family, Cas—don’t you know what that means? You can’t unearn family, 'cuz you didn’t earn it. Sure, we got history, but you’re a part of us because you’re _you_ , buddy. Not your powers, not how tall you—well, you _could_ use a few feet, but not _because_ of those things. You always try to do what’s right, Cas. You’re smart and loyal and brave.” When he lowered his teary eyes and dipped his chin, I shook him gently, until he looked up. “Yeah, _brave_ , buddy. This was class A stupid what you did tonight, but nobody’s gonna call you a coward over it. That’s who you are. No matter what, you’re still Cas.”

I watched him hiccup and catch his breath enough to say, “Th-thank you, Dean. Is-is it—is it o-over?”

That’s when I hugged him to my chest (shut up, you would too), careful not to squeeze too hard. “Yeah, buddy, it’s all over, now. You’re ok, I’ve gotchoo.”


	6. Cas

I would have believed that I was entirely comprised of a throbbing backside, had my heart not felt so light, as I was engulfed by Dean Winchester’s flannel. Could what he said be true—did they want me, _unconditionally_? I searched my memory and revisited each and every time I fell short—from misleading Sam and Dean toward the Apocalypse to betraying them to ally with Crowley to the souls and even breaking Sam’s wall—through it all, my humans forgave me, time and time again. They fought with and _for_ me.

My predicament seemed a direct result of fixing Sam, which was my fault in the first place, but even after that the Winchesters were fighting to keep me safe. 

_Me_.

Since I had begun to shrink and lose my grace, the only feeling I allowed was anger, but held gently against Dean’s chest, a flood of emotions poured out of me. With my human frailty embraced warmly by another human, I was free to sob out all the grief and joy of my millenia.

Any moment, I expected Dean to set me on my feet with a playful rub of his knuckles on my hair, but instead he just held me, rubbing my back and occasionally shushing me with a soft, “I’ve gotchoo.”

Even when my downpour of tears had dried, Dean didn’t let go. Though I let out an undignified yelp when he eased my pants up, the ferocious hunter used care to support me with a hand under my tender rear, the other cupping the back of my head. Then, I was startled by a third hand, flat and broad against my back. I knew it well.

Sam’s voice was kind, “You ok, Cas?”

Still a bit surprised, I nodded against Dean’s shoulder.

“You didn’t think I’d let my brother do this alone, did you?” He gestured with his jaw toward a dark corner, piled high with charred pews. “I was back there, the whole time—who do you think shot the werewolf?”

I gave Dean a side-eye and he shrugged, “So? I lied.”

Sam focused his attention on me. “You took that well, buddy—I’m proud of you. And Cas, what Dean said, it’s all true.”

I felt my face flush, “Thank you, Sam. An-and thank you for staying. It couldn’t have been pleasant for you.”

“Not half as bad as it was for you. I tried to warn you—Dean spanks _hard_.”

_Well, duh._

Dean finally set me down with a soft pat, where I needed it most. “C’mon, buddy, you can lie down in the back seat on your stomach.” The terrible sting in my rear end had subsided, leaving behind an itchy soreness I found tolerable enough. 

As we exited the church, I remembered something, turned and ran back inside, calling to Sam and Dean, “Be right back!” Inside the church, I stepped carefully around the dead werewolf and picked up the red and silver pocketknife, brushing off the dust. 

_Dean told me not to lose it._

A sudden flash of headlights urged me back outside, but I found the Impala wasn’t yet running and the Winchesters standing in the moonlight, staring at me. 


	7. No reason, No Explanation, No Nothing

When Cas ran back into the church, Dean started to go after his friend, but was driven back by an intense glow of light—so bright it burned against his skin.

“What the Hell was that?”

Sam shrugged, blinking away the temporary blanching behind his retinas. “Cas?”

Filling the doorway of the church, stood Castiel—all six, one of him, clad in his “holy tax accountant” wear—which fit his tall frame neatly.

The angel looked from brother to brother, then down at his hand, wrapped fully around the little pocketknife.

“I’m—I’m, uh, Dean? Sam?” Cas was at a loss for words, though speaking seemed to please him. His gravelly voice carried down the steps, falling on relieved Winchester ears.

“Cas, you’re big! What happened in there?”

“I’m…not entirely sure, Sam.”

“Are you back? I mean, you’ve got your mojo?”

Cas’ gaze fell on Dean, before he closed his eyes and opened them to reveal their ultra-blue glow, then the doorway lit up around him, casting shadows of his wings around the inside of the church. The light faded and Cas’ eyes returned to their normal, but brilliant blue.

“I’m back, Dean.”

“Just like that? No reason, no explanation, no nothing?”

Sam smoothed back his hair, thoughtful. “Maybe whatever brought you back and made you shrink—God or whatever it was, maybe wanted you to learn something, Cas.”

“What is this, Sam, an after-school special?”

But the angel nodded, slowly. “I have learned a lesson.”

When the brothers got into the front seat of the Impala, gearing up for the long drive home, Castiel slid into the back—with an audible wince. He was sure his powers were fully restored—but then why couldn’t he heal the ache in his backside?

Dean met the angel’s eyes in the rearview, “Looks like whatever _it_ was, wanted the lesson to stick around a while.”

The little shit smiled, in spite of himself.


End file.
